


waiting for the sirens

by orphan_account



Series: steady now, breathe (febuwhump 2021) [3]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Abused Morality | Patton Sanders, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beating, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Morality | Patton Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kidnapping, Knives, Physical Abuse, Protective Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Protective Deceit | Janus Sanders, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Sympathetic Morality | Patton Sanders, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29194296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: febuwhump prompt #3: imprisonmentA hand grabs his chin, yanks his face upward, and Patton can't help the way he gasps. It's a side—not a side he knows—and there's only one place in Thomas's mind with sides he doesn't know—"Anightmare,"the side echoes, smiling. "Is that what you think, Morality?"...or: patton gets kidnapped and hurt real bad, and the other sides are running out of time to save him.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil & Creativity | Roman & Logic | Logan & Morality | Patton
Series: steady now, breathe (febuwhump 2021) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139798
Comments: 24
Kudos: 72





	waiting for the sirens

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS VERY PAINFUL GUYS HEED. THE. TAGS. 
> 
> prompt 3 is imprisonment & patton is the focus... lots of hurt, yes, but LOTS of comfort at the end I PROMISE!!! 
> 
> title from "train wreck" by james arthur. a perfectly heartbreaking song for a perfectly heartbreaking story

. 

. 

. 

Patton is... 

Shackled? 

He blinks sleep out of his eyes. Shackles on his wrists, yup. His hands are chained to each other and also to... 

He blinks, pushes himself to his hands and knees, turns his head to follow the chain. A cinderblock wall. He is chained to a cinderblock wall with a few yards' slack, at most. 

...what? 

Patton remembers falling asleep last night. He remembers cuddling with Thomas's old stuffed animals, precious memories trapped inside them, safe in his warm bed; he remembers how the soft yellow glow of fairy lights lulled his tired eyes shut. 

A door clicks and opens. 

Patton is suddenly very scared. 

"Ah, you're awake," calls an unfamiliar voice, and that—that in itself is terrifying, because there shouldn't be any unfamiliar voices. Is this— 

Is this a nightmare? This has to be a nightmare. "This is a nightmare," Patton whispers, staring at his hands. Wake up, he wills himself. Wake up, wake up, wake up— 

"Aw, that's cute," the voice croons, closer now, and Patton cringes closer to the wall. 

A hand grabs his chin, yanks his face upward, and Patton can't help the way he gasps. It's a side—not a side he knows—and there's only one place in Thomas's mind with sides he doesn't know— 

"A _nightmare,_ " the side echoes, smiling. "Is that what you think, Morality?" 

Patton knows where he is. Where he must be. 

He remembers a conversation he once had with Virgil. The younger side had spoken in trembling words, told him that feeling safe was something so new. He remembers the way Anxiety used to flinch at things like hugs and high-fives—the way he seemed to brace himself when someone asked after him—the way those biting insults always carried an undercurrent of fear. 

This is the dark side. 

The hidden things, out of the light—the frayed edges of Thomas' mind, just on the edge of the subconscious. This is the place where Virgil learned to be afraid. 

And Virgil never gave him any details, but Patton is getting a terrible feeling that he's about to learn firsthand what it was like. 

"You can call me Malice," says the unfamiliar side. "Not that you'll be calling me much of anything. Let me make it clear right away: _I'll_ be doing most of the talking. Capiche?" 

Slowly, Patton nods, eyes wide. 

"Now, let's see," Malice says. "How shall I put this? I have a request for you, Morality." 

"A… request," Patton echoes, frowning, and Malice's face twists into a snarl and— 

_Smack._ Patton's head whips to the side, cheek stinging hot with the force of the blow. 

"You will speak when I give you _permission,_ bitch," says Malice, and Patton stares, mouth open, eyes blown wide. _Don't cry,_ he tells himself. _Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry…_

Malice stares at him, eyes narrowed, nothing but contempt in his expression—and Patton doesn't think anyone has ever looked at him like that. Like he's— 

Like he's nothing. 

Apparently satisfied with his silence, Mal continues, dropping his hands into his pockets. "As I was saying," he says. He starts to pace, back and forth, casual, relaxed. "I have a request. It's simple, really. You'd hardly have to blink—hardly have to do a thing. I'm being generous, if you think about it. Just one tiny little favor in exchange for your freedom." 

Patton doesn't like where this is going. He touches his cheek, keeps his mouth shut. 

Malice pauses in his pacing. Stares down at his shoe. Leans down to rub at a spot. 

He glances back up at Patton, and he looks… annoyed. Patton feels a tiny spark of fear. 

"Well?" Malice snaps, and Patton flounders for an answer. Well _what?_

"Aren't you going to ask me what the favor is?" Malice says, storming toward him, and Patton presses himself up against the wall. What the—? 

"But—" he starts, but he doesn't get another word out before Malice slaps him again, harder this time. Patton whimpers, clutching his cheek. Well. That's definitely going to bruise. 

"Don't give me any buts," Malice hisses. Patton wants to sob. This doesn't make any _sense._

"Wh-what," Patton starts—fights to keep his voice steady, tries so _hard_ not to cry— "what favor do you n-need?" 

Malice raises his hand again, and Patton cowers but no blow comes. After a moment, he draws a shaky breath and lifts his head. 

Malice is grinning. 

"That's better," he says. "Nice to see you're a quick study. Stay scared, bitch." 

He steps backs. Pushes his hands into his pockets again. 

"The favor's simple," he says. "Free reign." 

Patton stares. He's… not sure he understands. 

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Fights to keep his hands from shaking. 

Malice stares back at him for a second, then sighs. "Don't tell me you're really that stupid. Fuck, I should've guessed." 

The insult lodges somewhere deep in Patton's chest, hot shame bubbling over. He is pretty stupid, isn't he? He thinks of Logan—Logan is smart; no wonder he's never liked Patton much—and his heart aches because god he _misses_ Logan, misses Roman and Virgil and everyone. 

"Okay," says Malice, "let me dumb it down for you. You can do whatever the hell you want up there on the light side of things. You and Roman and Logan, you run the show, and sides like me, we're stuck down here." 

Oh. 

Oh, Patton thinks he might get it now. 

He opens his mouth to say as much, but snaps it shut just as fast. Better let him finish. 

"And you know, I might've been able to accept that," Malice continues. "Once upon a time. But then you let _Virgil—"_

And he breaks into laughter, and the look on his face is so _incredulous._ Something like anger flickers inside of Patton. 

"You took a chance on Virgil," Mal chokes out through his giggles. "Fucking _Anxiety._ A _goddamn disease!_ You let _him_ hang out with you, you gave _him_ a seat at the table—do you know how many years I spent beating him into submission? Keeping him in _check_ for you?" 

Patton sucks in a sharp breath. "You _beat him?"_ he hisses before he can stop himself, fury coloring his words, and— 

And Malice stops laughing. 

"The hell did I say about speaking out of turn." 

Patton's breath catches in his throat, and his fists tighten at his sides, _please, wait, no—_

Turns out being hit with a closed fist is infinitely worse than an open palm. A minute or two later, Patton lies on the ground, gasping for breath, five new bruises blossoming up and down his body. 

Well. This is going to be fun, he thinks. 

"As I was saying," Mal says coldly, brushing invisible dust off his suit jacket. "I want in. I want my seat at the table, and you're in my way. The others, too—Envy and Avarice and Wrath—they're pretty useful. All you have to do is say the word. Let us through. Release the controls, easy as pie." 

He spreads his arms wide, offers a big smile. "I mean, really, I'm letting you off _easy!_ I can do whatever the hell I want to you—and trust me, there is a _lot_ I'd like to do—but instead I'll let you go without even one more bruise, and all _you_ have to do is say yes." 

Patton stares back at Malice. 

He's a smooth enough talker, Patton'll give him that. But— 

No. 

He can't. He couldn't. He would _never._

"I-I'm afraid I can't agree to that," he says with a watery laugh. 

This time he knows to expect the pain. And maybe it's just wishful thinking, but the blows don't seem to hurt as bad if he braces himself. 

* * *

Patton's not sure how long it's been. His stomach aches with hunger, so… a long time, probably. 

The door slams open. He flinches back against the wall. "Rise and shine, popstar," Malice calls, and—great. Now that nickname is ruined forever. 

"Well, you've had one full day to think on it. So. Changed your mind?" his jailer asks, quirking an eyebrow. Patton meets his eyes with a glare and shakes his head. 

And Malice... grins. 

"Actually," he says, strolling closer, "call me crazy, but I was kind of _hoping_ you'd say no. After all, this wouldn't be nearly so much fun if it were easy." 

Something in his hand flashes silver. 

Patton chokes on his next breath. _A knife._

In the next moment, he's pinned to the wall. Mal smiles wide. Once the pain starts it doesn't stop; blood trickles down and puddles on the stone floor beneath them. 

Malice doesn't leave until Patton is screaming. 

* * *

Eight more days pass. 

Malice gets really… uh, creative. Patton holds firm, unwilling to betray his purpose; Mal tries everything from starvation to beatings to cutting him wide open, stepping into the cell to torture him at least once a day. 

But still, he's left alone more often than not. In the hours of blank space in between the pain, he curls up against the wall, pulling weakly at the shackles that he knows won't give. He thinks of Logan and Roman and Virgil, probably missing him, probably worried sick. Maybe Janus, too. Janus is his friend, right? 

Malice would have him believe that no one is his friend. That no one wants him, no one likes him, he's no good at his job. Malice likes to say terrible things. Likes to berate him, belittle him, call him names. 

…Malice _really_ likes to call him names. 

Patton has figured out by now that Malice just likes to have somebody to tear apart, that the names bring him a kind of pleasure, and he says them because of that pleasure, not because they're true. It took him a little bit to get there, but Patton is the heart. He knows feelings. 

It helps a little. To know the reason. 

There is a tiny part of him that believes the words, though. It would be hard not to—impossible, maybe. 

"Stupid bitch," Malice mutters, kicking a tray of food toward him. Patton doesn't flinch. (He _doesn't.)_ He draws in a shaky breath and crawls toward the tray—it's a few feet away from the wall he's confined to, but his chains are just long enough to reach. 

A few slices of bread. Some cheese. An apple. 

Patton doesn't know how long it's been since he last ate, but he figures the tears of relief that gather in his eyes are pretty telling. His hands tremble as he reaches forward— 

Mal swipes the tray backward. Patton lunges, but the chains jerk him back. He can't _reach._ A sob tears out of him. 

"God," Mal says, snickering, "I'm sorry, Pat, I just—oh, who am I kidding? I'm not sorry." He bursts into a fit of giggles. The tears are rolling down Patton's cheeks now, and his stomach is one big empty chasm, and god it _hurts._ And he _can't reach._

"Oh, god, you're _crying,_ that's—this is too good. You are _so_ much more fun than Virgil was, know that?" 

Slowly, Malice nudges the tray forward. Patton stares, transfixed. _Please,_ he thinks, _please please please please—_

Almost close enough, and Malice jerks it back again. Patton crumples, shoulders shaking. 

Malice bursts out laughing. "God, you make this too fucking _easy,_ Padre. I mean, the look on your face, like—like three pieces of bread are literal fucking sunshine—" He breaks off into another giggle fit, and Patton sits there, shaking, eyes squeezed shut, while Malice tries to compose himself. "I just, I can't resist. That _face._ God." 

His giggles have mostly died out, and he kicks the tray toward Patton again. "Here." 

Patton doesn't reach forward. Doesn't even open his eyes. 

"Aw, has my little plaything learned his lesson?" Malice mocks. Patton clenches his fists. "Go on. Open your eyes. You get to eat it this time, I promise. I can't have you starving to death on me—you'd just wake up back on the light side." 

The tray scrapes the floor as Mal pushes it closer. Really close. 

_Brace yourself don't hope don't hope don't hope,_ Patton thinks, and he opens his eyes, and it's— 

It's right _there._ Food. 

A new wave of tears wells up and spills over, and Malice roars with laughter. _Don't hope,_ Patton reminds himself, _don't don't don't don't._

Slowly, he reaches forward— 

And Malice doesn't take it away. Doesn't move at all. 

Patton hesitates for a split second. Then he grabs the tray, yanks it close and shoves two bread slices into his mouth at once. Malice is laughing harder than ever and Patton doesn't _care_ because it's _food_ and he's _eating it_ and nothing has ever tasted better. He grabs the third slice and the apple and the cheese and scrambles back, presses himself up against the wall, clutches the food to his chest. 

He wonders what it says about him, that nine days have reduced him to this. 

* * *

The tenth day is strange. 

When Malice strolls in on the tenth day, he isn't alone. He watches, impassive, as a side called Wrath beats Patton bloody. 

Wrath hits Patton like he's got something to prove. He breaks Patton's nose and then his left arm, and after maybe the fourth or fifth blow to the head, Malice touches Wrath's arm and murmurs, "That's enough." 

Patton can hardly see past the blood in his eyes. Every move, every breath is laced with agony, and it might be over for today but it still hurts, Patton's just _lying here_ and it hurts so _bad._

Wrath leaves, the cell door falling shut behind him. 

Malice sits on the ground and stays. 

He talks to Patton for awhile. Talks about everything and nothing, about what Thomas did that day, what this side or the other said that amused him. Patton just lies there and breathes through the pain. 

Eventually Mal leaves, too. And Patton doesn't understand the ache in his chest, doesn't understand why he finds himself wishing— 

Wishing that Mal would come back. 

* * *

Day eleven. Malice has him strung up like a marionette, hanging by his chains. Patton struggles and shifts around, tries to put more weight on the arm that _isn't_ broken, but it hurts either way. 

"You're just so damn cute," says Malice, shaking his head. "Lust has been _dying_ to get his hands on you, you know, but I've kept him at bay. It's kind of me, don't you think?" 

Patton tries very hard not to think about what he means by that. 

"After all," Mal says, examining his bloody fingernails, "that might actually break you past the point of caring, and that's not what we want. It's a fine line I have to draw—enough pain that you'll do _anything_ to make it stop, but not too much or you might just shatter." 

He stretches. Yawns. Ruffles Patton's hair. 

"Though if you really aren't going to budge, we might just _have_ to shatter you," he says. "I don't like the idea—can't be quite sure what would happen, after all—but it might make things easier, if we run out of options. There's still Janus to deal with, of course, but we'll burn that bridge later." 

He leaves. 

Patton closes his eyes and thinks of Roman, Logan, Virgil. He thinks of Thomas. Reaches out, hopes to feel him, maybe—hopes for just a glimpse— 

_A sob. A shout. A crash._

_"We're coming, Patton."_

Patton's eyes fly open, heart pounding—he reaches for the thread, tries to grab it, tries to pull it back— 

But it's gone, just as quickly as it came. Beautiful things don't belong in a place like this. 

* * *

The door slams open. 

_Breathe,_ Patton thinks, _breathe, just breathe, it's okay you're okay you'll survive you're okay._

A hand reaches toward him, and he flinches back. 

_"God,_ you're pathetic," Malice mutters. "Calm down. I'm not here to beat you." 

_Lies,_ Patton thinks, _lies lies lies lies,_ but still he looks up after a moment's hesitation, lowers the unbroken arm that covers his head. He's always trusted a little too easily, hasn't he? 

Malice rolls his eyes. "We're relocating, Padre." 

The chains are gone. Patton's heart thumps faster in his chest, and he tries to pull his mind together, _this is his chance,_ tries to force his agonized body to move— 

"Can't let your precious friends find you, now, can we?" Mal sneers, and he grabs Patton's arm. 

His _broken arm._

And then Mal starts walking, dragging his prisoner behind him, and Patton _screams._

He doesn't know how long it lasts. He must pass out at some point—maybe more than once—and when the pain finally starts to ebb, he's somewhere new—somewhere darker, colder, emptier. 

Malice lets go. Patton crumples, empty stomach heaving, retching up nothing but bile. 

"You're so loud," Malice complains, twisting his finger in his ear. "I mean, don't get me wrong, you _do_ scream pretty—your eyes roll up and everything, you're so damn expressive. You're just, you know, a bit of a hazard to my eardrums." 

_You're a bit of a hazard to my everything_ , Patton thinks, but he knows better than to say it. 

"Anyway, we're here." Malice flicks his wrist, and Patton's shackled again, chained up and bolted to the floor. He blinks, tries to focus— 

He looks around and immediately wishes he didn't. 

He can't see a wall or a ceiling, just— 

Darkness. 

Darkness all around, stretching as far as he can see and even farther, nothing but darkness and a stone cold floor. 

Patton draws in a shaky breath. No, he thinks, no, no, no, no, no— 

"Not quite the subconscious," Mal says, "but close. Just on the edge. Your precious little family won't even _feel_ you all the way down here. Hell—with any luck, they'll just think you're dead." 

Patton can't stop the wail that escapes him. 

_"No,"_ he sobs, curling in on himself. "No—no—no—" 

"Oh, shut up," Malice says. "You'll get used to it." 

And then he turns— 

He walks away, into the darkness—no—no, god no, please, don't _leave him here—_

* * *

And Patton is alone, with nothing but pain for company. 

* * *

Malice still visits once a day. Usually to hurt him worse, but sometimes it's— 

Sometimes it's weird. 

"I'm going to break you into little pieces," Malice says, oh so soft. A hand caresses Patton's cheek, and—and he hates himself for it but he _keens._

A grin spreads across Mal's face. 

His hand trails down, over his neck, rests on his shoulder. Patton hasn't been touched like this—touched softly, touched kindly—in so goddamn long. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, tears trickling out. 

"I'll get Lust in here," Malice says. "Let him do whatever he wants. It's not like you're good for anything else, right?" 

Patton sobs. 

Malice is— 

Malice is _right._

"Can't even do your job," Malice _tsks._ He lifts his hand again, cups Patton's face, and Patton leans into the contact. "You let yourself get captured, and now Thomas doesn't have anyone to guide him… not that you ever excelled at it before, of course." 

No. Patton wasn't good at it. He remembers when he used to be—when it was easy, when he knew how to be a _good_ Morality. (It's been so long since he's been a good Morality.) 

Malice brushes a finger over the break in Patton's arm, and he flinches back, pain racing through the bone. 

"I know it hurts," says Malice softly. "I wish it didn't have to. You can make it stop. You can make it _all_ stop if you just give in, Patton-cake." 

_Give in, Patton-cake._

Patton thinks of Thomas. Kind, sweet, loyal Thomas. Thomas isn't malicious—isn't vengeful—isn't envious or greedy. He thinks of Janus, the one they'll come for next, a side who keeps them trapped just as much as Patton does. Will Malice torture him, too? 

Patton has always been too much a martyr for his own good. 

"I—I can't," he whispers. "I'm sorry." 

He's not really sure who he's apologizing to. Malice's face twists, soft touches turning vicious—he grabs Patton's broken arm and _squeezes,_ and a hoarse scream tears out of Patton's throat. 

"You'd better fucking _believe_ you're sorry," he says. "You're _worthless_ and after tonight you're going to _know it."_

And then Malice is gone, and the darkness is everywhere. Patton curls into a lonely ball. He thinks of all the threats Mal has made, and he knows there's only one thing left. 

_Don't think about it,_ he tells himself, trying so hard not to cry. _Don't, don't, don't._

* * *

Lust gets exactly what he wants. 

* * *

The days have blurred together for a long time already. Now a line has been crossed that can never be uncrossed, and Patton stops paying attention to time at all. 

At some point his hopeless dreams of rescue just… stop. No more fantasies of Logan or Roman coming to save him. His nightmares spiral into worse and worse territory, and eventually he can't tell the difference anymore between the horrors conjured by his mind and the reality he wakes up to. 

His heart goes cold and empty. He doesn't cry anymore. 

"You're nothing," Malice says to him, and the truth of it resounds through every fiber of Patton's being. "You were bad before, but now you're just nothing." 

It could be real or it could be a nightmare. Patton doesn't know. He doesn't care. 

It's not like it'll ever matter. 

* * *

Both of Patton's arms are broken. 

He doesn't remember the second break. He doesn't remember much at all anymore. Malice grabs him by the shoulder, hoists him into the air, and it hurts so fucking _bad_ but all Patton can manage is a weak moan. 

"Oh, don't give me that shit," Malice mutters, and with a grunt of effort, he _throws_ Patton back to the ground. His body hits stone with a _smack,_ and he lies there, still as a corpse. 

Mal lifts one foot. Steps on one of Patton's arms and _presses._

it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts 

it _always_ hurts. 

"You're going to die," says Malice, shoving his foot down _harder_ and Patton feels another bone just _snap._ He barely manages a gasp. "I'm going to kill you," says Malice, "and you're not going to come back." 

He's… not going to come back. 

"You're going to _die,"_ Malice repeats, "and you're going to _stay gone._ You are _nothing._ You will _never_ be anything." 

He'll never be anything. 

"You're going. To stay. Dead," Malice hisses, and Patton whimpers, because it hurts, it _hurts,_ and if he's going to die anyway then _why can't it just be over already—_

And then the pressure is gone. 

Patton gasps. 

There's a moment of silence, a moment of emptiness that gives him time to wonder if this is it. If he's actually gone. 

Then— 

"What the hell are you doing here," Malice snaps. 

"I think you have something of ours," replies a voice that is very, very cold and very, very familiar. 

It takes Patton a second, but he… he knows who that is. He _knows who that is._

This— 

This has to be a dream. 

"You've made a _grave_ mistake," the voice hisses, and Patton blinks his eyes open and lets his head loll to the side, and this _has to be a dream._

Janus stands several yards away, facing Malice, wielding his cane like a sword. 

Mal quirks an eyebrow, about as bothered by the threat as he's been by all of Patton's begging and screaming. "Have I, now," he drawls. "And what, pray tell, are you going to do about it?" 

Janus's fists clench. His eyes flick to Patton, broken and bleeding on the floor, and then to something else—something above him— 

What—? 

"I'm not going to do anything," says Janus. 

Mal falters. "What are—?" 

He doesn't get another word out. Something drops from high above, lands in a crouch behind Malice, and Patton should flinch back—should do something—should be _terrified,_ but he's just. Exhausted. 

And then the fallen something rises from its crouch, and it's Roman, brave and shining Roman, here in his full glory, sword in hand. With a shout of rage he drives the blade straight through Malice's back. 

"Roman, on the other hand, is going to kill you," says Janus, and in the next blink Mal is gone. 

For a moment they stand frozen. 

Roman's panting, bloody sword clutched tightly. Janus's fists are still clenched, staring at the spot where Malice just stood. 

Then Roman turns, tears in his eyes, and says, "Patton, oh _god."_ And something cracks in Patton's chest, hot relief spilling over— Roman grips his shoulders, pulls him into a tight embrace, and Patton doesn't even care about the pain—he turns into Roman's chest and _cries._

He hasn't cried since Lust— 

He hasn't cried in _days._

"I've got him—I've got him, he's here, he's okay," Roman is saying, and that's a little bit a lie, because Patton's never been this broken in his life. 

But also, he's in Roman's arms. 

That's okay enough for him. 

"Patton," cries another voice, and he knows this one, too. Not Malice. Not Lust, not Avarice. 

"Virgil," he rasps, peeking out from Roman's embrace. Black tears streak down the anxious side's face. Cold fingers thread through his own and squeeze tight. Patton offers a tired smile and tries to squeeze back. 

"We've got you," he says. "We've got you, Patton, we're gonna bring you home." 

Home. 

_Home._

This has to be a dream, Patton keeps thinking. _This has to be a dream._

"Home," he tries to whisper, but his voice kind of… doesn't work anymore. He focuses on the scratch of his throat, the throb of his arms—lets the pain ground him in this moment. 

Home. 

He tries to wrap his mind around the word—tries to make himself believe it. He'd sort of stopped believing he would ever get home. He doesn't know how long it's been—weeks? Months, even—and he dreads learning the answer, dreads knowing what was _happening_ to Thomas all this time, his Morality chained up on the edge of the subconscious. 

However long it was, Patton has half-forgotten the feeling of a hug. Of an embrace that doesn't promise pain, of waking up safe in his own bed. He's forgotten things like warmth and soft-baked cookies and the way Logan smiles when someone listens to him. He's forgotten things like weddings and callbacks and Nico Flores. 

He thinks of all these things and more as Roman lifts him into the air, walks with heavy steps out of the dark. He thinks of sunshine through the window in Thomas's apartment, carpet fibers between his toes, Virgil's favorite Disney movie playing in the background, a mug filled with hot cocoa in his hands. He cries and cries and doesn't stop—and the others are worried, they're heartbroken, they don't know what to do—he can feel all the sadness bundled up in their chests, seeing him cry like this. 

They don't realize that the tears are _everything._

It's proof of life, like the wailing of a newborn baby. Patton wasn't sure he knew how to cry anymore. He'd thought Malice was right—he'd thought that he was broken. Thought maybe he would fade away, and Thomas would be left without him, a gray patch of wall where his room used to be, the sense of something missing in place of his Morality. 

He'd thought he would be numb forever until one day he wasn't anything at all anymore. 

But Malice was _wrong._ Patton feels things—god, does he feel things. Joy and sorrow and _love._ Love is who Patton _is_ —a _thousand_ days in the dark wouldn't be enough to take that. He loves Roman, strong and steady, ever the hero in this awful story; he loves Virgil's protective terror, loves the way Janus casts him furtive glances—checking on him but pretending not to. 

Someone's missing, though. 

Patton tries to speak—coughs, throat cracking, still rough from screaming—tries again and manages to choke out a name. 

"Logan," he says. 

Roman glances down. Offers a tight smile. 

"He's at home," Roman says. "Been worried sick. He's the reason we—" 

Roman's voice wobbles, and he cuts himself off. Takes an unsteady breath. "He's… the reason we found you at all," he says. "All that nerdy knowledge of his, sides and brains and subconsciouses. We'd never have figured it out without him." 

A smile flickers over Patton's face. 

Logan was looking. They were _all_ looking. 

"You were... looking," he whispers, and as his eyes fall shut, he misses the way Roman's face crumples. 

"Patton, of course we were looking," the prince murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. "You're our heart." 

Patton is warm, and he's loved, and he's going home. He falls asleep in Roman's arms, tears drying on his face, and trusts he'll wake up safe and sound. 

* * *

"Shh… Logan! You're going to wake him up." 

"He needs to wake up. Look at him, he's _emaciated._ He's been asleep for eighteen hours—he needs to eat something." 

"He's _healing!"_

"He won't heal without sustained caloric intake." 

Hands. On his face, pushing his hair back, deceptively gentle. Patton squeezes his eyes shut, curls away from the touch. Holds himself totally still. Doesn't even breathe. 

"Please no," he whispers. 

Is it Malice? Or Lust? Malice did this sometimes, but it's probably—probably Lust— 

"Patton?" a voice asks, and that doesn't—that doesn't sound like Malice or Lust. Someone else, then. Someone else here to hurt him, or—or _enjoy_ him. Patton's stomach drops. 

He wants to go back to _sleep._

Nightmare after nightmare, torture and pain and—and worse things, and—and for the first time, he got to have a dream that was _nice._ (No one's really coming to rescue him; Mal's made sure Patton knows that. Still. It was a sweet dream.) 

"Patton," the voice repeats, tugging him back into the present, and there's a hand on him again—so gentle it makes Patton sick because he _knows_ what's coming next—and Patton whimpers, twisting away, curling further into his blanket. 

Into his— 

Blanket? 

Wait. 

"Patton, love. No one's going to hurt you." And this can't be right, but that sounds like— 

That almost sounds like Roman. 

Patton remembers his dream. How the prince wrapped him up in softness, wrapped him up in warmth—how he carried him out of the dark. 

_Don't hope,_ he tells himself. 

_Don't, don't, don't._

Slowly, Patton cracks his eyes open. And there's— 

Light. 

And Logan's face in front of him, and Roman and Virgil hovering behind. No Malice, no Lust, no darkness, no chains. Patton blinks. 

"Oh, good," says Logan, relieved. "You require sustenance if you are to continue healing." 

Patton bursts into tears. 

* * *

Turns out starvation's a tricky thing to recover from, as are broken bones. Not to mention Patton's many… other injuries. 

They bandaged up what they could while he was knocked out, which was surprisingly a lot. Patton finds both of his arms in casts, which means he needs a lot of help getting "sustenance" in him. The solution they settle on is... spoon-feeding, which might be mortifying if Patton were literally anyone else in literally any other circumstance. As it is, he's just— 

He's just happy to be here. Surrounded by his family. 

He sits on the couch in the common room he's missed so much, cuddled up against Roman, eating tiny bites of applesauce courtesy of Virgil. Logan's first suggestion had been yogurt, but— 

_"No," Patton had said when Virgil held up the white spoonful. "No, no—Lust, please—"_

Applesauce made more sense anyway, Logan had said. Lighter, more digestible. Easier on his shrunken stomach. So that was that. 

Janus is around, too. He appears in Patton's periphery only to duck around a corner a moment later. When they think he's asleep, Patton hears Janus talking to Virgil or Roman, whispering bits of advice, probably speaking from experience. 

("It was just the two of us down there," Virgil told Patton, once. "Trapped with the others. Janus used to patch me up. Used to protect me, when he could.") 

There's so much sadness in the air, so much _guilt_ —whenever Patton flinches, when he whispers things like _"please don't"_ without really meaning to, he feels four hearts break all at once around him. 

* * *

"It wasn't your fault, you know," Patton says softly, in the quiet of an early morning, the sky gray-white with fog. 

He sits curled up on the couch—it's where he spends most of his time, now, unwilling to shut himself away in his room. They've all been spending more time out here—Patton thinks maybe it's just as hard for them to let him out of their sight as it is for him to be alone. 

Logan's standing at the griddle in the kitchen, Roman flicking through Netflix, Virgil perched on the counter with a bowl of cereal. 

Roman scoffs. 

"We could've protected you," he said. "We should've—we should've _known."_

"He took you from under our noses," adds Virgil. "He took you while we were _asleep."_

"I was asleep, too, you know," Patton says lightly. "I did about as much to protect myself as you three did. If it's not my fault, it _can't_ be yours." 

"Logically speaking," announces Logan, striding in with a steaming plate of griddle cakes, "your argument is sound, Patton." 

He places the plate on the coffee table, and Roman lunges, grabbing two of the griddle cakes and all but stuffing them into his mouth. Patton blinks. 

_Three slices of bread, some cheese, an apple. "You're so much more fun than Virgil was, know that?"_

He blinks again, takes a shaky breath. _You're home,_ he tells himself. _You're safe._

"However," Logan continues, taking a seat on Patton's other side, "Logic nonwithstanding, I cannot seem to rid myself of these… guilty feelings." He clears his throat. "I assume the others feel the same." 

"What I think Logan is trying to say," says Janus— 

Wait, wait. When did Janus get here? 

"You sneaky snake!" Roman cries. "Stop _doing_ that!" 

"I didn't hear you complaining when I snuck up on Malice," says Janus dryly, and that is _totally_ not fair but Roman shuts his mouth. 

"As I was saying," Janus says, stabbing a griddle cake with a fork, "Logan is trying to convey that we all have feelings about what happened to you, and none of those feelings are going to be explained away by logic. It was—awful. It shouldn't have happened. We can't expect ourselves to just _be okay_ in the aftermath." 

No one seems to have an answer for that. Janus takes a bite of his griddle cake. Chews and swallows. Puts down his fork.

He reaches out, places one gloved hand on Patton's. 

"You can't expect that of yourself, either," he murmurs. 

And then he's gone. 

"That," says Roman with a huff, "was _clearly_ just an excuse to steal a griddle cake." 

But Patton's smiling, even if it is a little bittersweet. He looks down at his hands, curled in his lap—glances at Roman and Logan on either side of him, flanking him, protecting him. Virgil hops off the counter and plops himself down on the coffee table, grabbing a griddle cake for himself. 

He's safe, if just for a moment. 

Maybe they're not okay yet, but Patton has a feeling they will be. 

. 

. 

. 

**Author's Note:**

> i gave myself nerve damage writing this in one (1) day on my phone, so... leave a comment? pls?? 
> 
> i love you guys 💕 & see you tomorrow!!


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